


Lost you Once

by Khansfringe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, I would put in another tag, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Not today, Past Lives, Suicidal Thoughts, Vamplock, Violence, but I don't want to make it too spoilery yet, going to add the other tags now but don't want to remove the others because they make me happy, so...can't do it, the stars are not in position
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khansfringe/pseuds/Khansfringe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since returning from Afghanistan John feels wrong, at odds with the world around him. It doesn't feel the same as it did, and he's plagued by a dream of something that never happened. But it felt as if it did, it felt real. A voice in it stirs unrecognizable feelings of familiarity which leaves the Army doctor confused, even more so when he meets the owner of the voice whom he'd never met before. </p><p>In a life as long as Sherlock's he doesn't expect surprises. However that's just what he gets when he finds a familiar scent drifting on the wind. One that died with it's owner more than a century before. And yet John Watson exists, not quite as he did before but it is still him. The same man, in a different life of his own, making a second appearance in Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Odds with life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from John's perspective. It will shift from chapter to chapter, unless they're in two different places in one. I'm hoping that it will be clear enough in writing.

          John Hamish Watson grew up in what one could call a fairly normal life. His mum and dad meeting in school, marrying a bit out of college. His sister came first, and he followed a couple years after, though growing up he always seemed the older one. Family of four, perfect little unit. Normal. He played rugby, hung out with his mates, got good marks in nearly everything save for Literature, and Maths for a minute as well.

          John was seven when first got the idea that he wanted to be a doctor. He’d seen a news report on the telly about a bus accident, and how a doctor who was passing by had helped save lives while they waited for paramedics to arrive. He looked towards his mum, pointing at the screen. “I think I’ll do that,” he said with a decisive nod, a determined look on his face as if he’d just made the soundest decision of his life. His mother smiled at him good naturedly and nodded, knowing full well that John had wanted to be a policeman just the week before, to which she gave the same response she gave to her son now, “That sounds amazing John, you’d be wonderful at it.”

          It wouldn’t be until John was fifteen that he would think himself as wanting to be a doctor again. In the eight years in between he bounced between Prime Minister, a news reporter, policeman, James Bond, and then a lawyer. By the time he settled on doctor again, he knew it was the right choice. He wanted to help people, save lives. Of course by the time he’d figured it out for a second time it wasn’t just something he could just _do_. A seven year old doesn’t really have a concept for the cost of school. So he made the decision soon after choosing to save lives, that he would enlist, have the army pay for his education.

          That was the plan, and all in all John considered it a good one. He would get to do what he wanted to do, after giving a couple years of his life. It all seemed to move so fast though, schooling, training, and then before he knew it he was having a farewell party thrown for him, promises of going out for pints when he got back, claps on the shoulder, toasts to him and his health.

“John!” Mike Stamford swung an arm over John’s shoulder, a pint of beer in his hand as he gave John a small shake. “Be careful over there, getting shot at. If not for you, I might not even have a chance at that job at Bart’s,” he said. John gave him a half smile, not really in the mood for celebrating. Mike was a bit sloshed, John could tell from when they’d gone to parties back at school. John had always been helping Mike, and had he not been shipping out he would be taking a job at Bart’s. It had been offered to him, but went to Mike on John’s recommendation, as he couldn’t take it.

“Yeah, thanks Mike. Hope it works out for you,” he said, patting Mikes arm and excusing himself to use the toilet.

Everything that followed felt like a blur.

Of course, nothing snaps things into perspective like a hole being blown through your life. Even if it is only for a few seconds.

 

* * *

 

It’s so damned hot. All the time, still it was a dry heat, and you get used to it after a while he supposed. Things always seem warmer though when bullets are being shot towards you.

Things had started out as fairly dull really. They’d started on basic training, weapons, protocol, all of it. John had worked himself up, and found everything rather easy. After learning all the precise movements and nuances to working with the human body, surgery and the like, sutures on small blood vessels, putting a gun together and shooting it was easy.

He got himself into a rhythm, and time passed quite easily. Circumstance, luck, and doing his job quickly earned him the rank of Captain in just under three years. He did the job, and focused on that. Time moved, and he was grateful.

John’s crouching near the wall of what he assumed used to be a home, practically reduced to rubble now. A bead of sweat rolls out under his helmet and down the back of his neck and he wipes at it, feeling the sand and grit against his skin. He can hear the peppering of gunfire, most of it seemed far away though. Not far enough it would seem.

It was always so hot, but not nearly as hot as the pain that shot through his body as the burning piece of metal tore through his shoulder, shattering his clavicle before bursting out the other side. He was thrown back into the sand, stunned for a moment before the pain set in, his breathing hitching already, trying to reach up to cover it, craning his neck down, but only making out the dark red that was staining his front, and starting to seep into the sand.

He’s dragged back harshly by the other men in his squadron, hearing people shouting before what had to be the worst pain he’d ever had in his life shot down into his shoulder as pressure was applied. John blinked, and his eyes wouldn’t open right away.

 

* * *

 It was so damned cold. He dragged his eyes open, blinking a few times as he was met with a darkened sky above him, small white flecks of snow drifting down lazily, catching in his eyelashes and landing on his face. He blinked a few times, his breaths rising in swirls above him. His shoulder screamed in agony, made him want to scream to, but he couldn’t do more than look at it. His brow furrowed, not seeing sand around him, but rather snow. No wonder it was so cold. He heard a shout then, his name. Frantic, and terrified, repeated again and again. He blinked again before it got close enough to put a face to though.

* * *

 

John woke up in an army hospital, if you could call it waking up. His mind was sluggish with drugs for pain, though he still felt the ache. He faded in and out, one of his men coming to see him, saying that they got pulled out in time.

It was a week later that he was coherent enough to piece everything together more. They’d stopped the bleeding for the most part, hunkered down until they could radio for aid. Apparently he’d flat lined twice, and then had an infection. His commanding officer came later, not the one he’d served with, but his replacement. He informed John that he was going to be sent back home. He should have felt relieved, happy even, but he didn’t feel anything.

 And that’s how it felt, for months. John finally returned home, staying in an invalided home while he healed the rest of the way, not starting his search just yet for a place of his own. He felt in between places almost, off.

* * *

 

And that’s how it felt, for months. John finally returned home, staying in an invalided home. He felt in between places almost, off and at odds with everything.

* * *

 

“You’re a soldier John, it’s going to be difficult to adjust to civilian life again,” his therapist Ella told him gently.

John’s fist clenched and released where it sat on top of his left thigh, doing so again before he flattened it to his leg. What was he doing here? He almost never talked about what he was thinking, or how he felt because half the time he didn’t know how he felt.

“You’re doing it again,” she said. John looked up, blinking a couple times.

“Hm?” he hummed softly, meeting her gaze. “Doing? Doing what?”

“You’re going off somewhere. You’re supposed to be here though, John.” 

“No, no I’m right here,” He said, nodding once. “What did you want to know?” he asked. Ella tapped her pen once, adjusting herself in her seat marginally.

“Tell me about the snow.” John blinked a couple times, glancing out the window. He’d mentioned it a couple times to her, he was surprised she had even brought it up.

“Well it was nothing important, just a dream like I said,” he said shortly. “Just my head going over what I saw when…when I got shot.”

“And why do you think you saw that? All that snow.”

John gave one shouldered shrug with his right side. “I don’t know. Because….because I had been in that desert for so long and it was hot, because it was January and where I grew up it would have been snowing by then most likely. I went into shock, I don’t think that’s something that can be explained really,” he said, shaking his head a little.

Ella looked at him thoughtfully. “And the voice?” 

John shook his head again. “It was just a voice, someone saying my name. My men were all shouting at me, probably just heard one of them.” He knew it hadn’t been one of his men, he knew all of them, this voice had been different, and the way it had said his name… still he didn’t say any of this.

When his hour was up he left, with the usual remarks about seeing each other in a week. He took up his cane and left, hailing a cab to be taken back home.

He knew without a doubt that he would go to the appointment, and then he would go home, and go to his appointment the next week, and the next week, until he was more or less forced to find a new place to live, which from the way things were looking, would not be in London.


	2. Life is Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a special day for Sherlock, though he hardly sees it that way as he looks back on just what it really means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! Here is chapter two. This is from Sherlock's perspective, and it offers a bit of his back story. It's not as rushed as John's was, but John's had to be rushed. His was covering a full life to get to where it really mattered.
> 
> Can't promise that updates are gonna come as often as everyday, but I felt inspired to write, so I did this chapter.

**2010**

They were always so tedious, so predictable, well perhaps not always. Sherlock found after almost three hundred years that there were usually a handful of humans that were for the most part tolerable.

And sometimes there were a few that he even liked.

But only one that ever really mattered. Now wasn't the time to think on that though, no. Only once a decade or so would he unlock that particular wing to his mind palace, if even that often.

He let out a long suffering sigh, though he hardly needed to do so, it was just another act, breathing. Humans got uncomfortable most of the time if you didn't breathe. They don’t notice it, not consciously most of the time, but he could tell quite easily that it was not breathing that did it. In fact, sometimes he would stop doing so, just to watch them squirm ever so slightly.

He sighed again, the woman sitting in his flat not having noticed the first one apparently.

“Your fiancée is not missing,” he said bluntly, fingers steepled under his chin. “I think you’ll find her just where you don’t want to think about her being, but you already know where she is. Her ex-girlfriend’s flat. You haven’t gone there because you know you’ll find her and then you’ll have to face the fact that she’s gone back to her despite the fact that you've been under the impression that the relationship was doing well. Quite mistaken though given the current circumstance you find yourself in. Good day, do try not to cry on anything on your way out.” He gestured to the door with his hand.

The woman had already been half in tears as she was explaining her situation, and burst into tears as she left. At least he wasn't going to charge her that had hardly been an exercise for him.

His phone vibrated next to him and he picked it up. He always kept it on vibrate, the rings were irritating, and it wasn't as if he couldn't hear it.

_Happy birthday brother. MH_

Sherlock sighed, sinking more into his chair for a bit of a sulk. It wasn't his birthday, his birthday had been months ago and had lost any real meaning a couple centuries before that. No, what his brother was referring to was technically the day he died.

He’d just turned thirty-six, and he would stay thirty-six forever now it seemed. It wasn't something he thought about often, though each time his brother insisted on associating with him, reminded him of it, for it had been his brother who had killed him.

It took him only a moment to go back to it, having it tucked deep away.

* * *

**1748**

Sherlock took to walking the various alleys of the city, taking it all in. He thought sometimes of traveling to the various colonies, see what knowledge he could seek in those places he only ever read about.

Much to his parent’s dismay he had not settled down yet, but he was far too busy for such matters. Not when there was an ever expanding city to explore. It wasn't that he never planned to settle down, but he mostly focused on what would bring about his own enjoyment.

Opium was one of those things, and what enjoyment it brought.

 

It was mid-June though when he finally brought himself back around to his family’s home that was nearer to the country. It had been several months since he’d seen his parents and he promised them to stop by, after all, they were getting older. His father had taken ill earlier in the spring, and he wanted to visit them both before he passed, Sherlock estimated that wouldn't be long.

So he borrowed a horse from someone who owed him a favor and made the trip. It was dark by the time he got to the house. There was someone waiting for him.

“Sherlock…” It was Mycroft, his elder brother. He almost never saw him, he’d left to pursue his own affairs while Sherlock was still a child. He was from their father’s first marriage, Mycroft’s mother dying in childbirth, he was raised by Sherlock’s mother. They had had a sister as well, but she had died of pneumonia before Sherlock was even born.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted him, climbing down off of the horse. It was difficult to see in the dim light from the lamps in the house, but something seemed off about his brother, the way he was looking at him. “You haven’t been round for a few years, to what do we owe this…surprise?” he asked. It was quite true, Sherlock never heard word from his brother, and coming from Sherlock that meant something. Mycroft had always been so attentive of him, to not hear anything for years well…that was unusual of him to say the least.

Mycroft stepped closer to the younger Holmes, his eyes narrowing slightly as he inhaled slowly, letting out the breath. “Passing by…Sherlock,” he said, eyes fixed on him. “You didn't know…did you?” he asked.

“About Father? He’s taken poorly, but I was under the assumption that-”

“He’s gone,” Mycroft cut him off. Sherlock blinked once, looking at him. “So is your mother.”

“ _Our_ mother, Mycroft what are you…?” Sherlock stepped forward, Mycroft stepping in front of him. It was then he felt something was wrong.

“Sherlock understand…he was dying, almost gone by the time I got here. And Mother, she…she would never have lasted long once he was gone.” He said, stepping closer to Sherlock, making him uneasy by the way he looked at him. Sherlock saw it then, perhaps no one would notice normally, but he knew his brother’s eyes, if anyone would, it was Sherlock; and they looked different.

“Mycroft…what have you done?” he asked, his heart speeding up slightly. His brother shook his head.

“No, brother mine, what have _you_ done?” Mycroft asked. “Look at you, thin…you’re wasting yourself. You’ll be in the streets soon enough at the rate you’re going and you are better than that…you can be so much better,” he said, inhaling again through his nose.

Sherlock took a step back from him, “I've not come here to be lectured, what you have done? What on Earth is going on?” he asked.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on Sherlock. “What I have done is a mercy, a kindness done to those I care for Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Surely, you would not have wanted our mother to bury Father…and then die alone while her only son allows himself to be lost with the filth the streets, addling his gift of a mind with drugs?” he asked. “No, what I did was a kindness. They felt nothing…I made sure of it.”

“You killed them?”

“I released them,” Mycroft corrected. “And now, I will fulfill the promise I made to Father when I said I would always look after you. And I will not watch you die,” He said, taking another step towards Sherlock.

The younger Holmes stepped back. “I’m not going to die, and I’m not going to become some street urchin.” His eyes eyes moving towards the house, it was far too quiet for this time of night, a stillness seemed to radiate from the house, one that made him even more uncomfortable.

“But you will, Sherlock. You _will_ die, someday. Whether or not it’s in a week, a year…ten years…” he shook his head. “And I will be there to see it, and I am not willing watch that. Not willing to break my promise, when I can give so much more to you.”

Sherlock paled slightly as he saw his brother’s mouth open, seeing two sharp white fangs drop from under his lip. The horse behind him whinnied, kicking up before it darted away. Sherlock stumbled back, that was impossible.

In a second Mycroft was in front of him, his hands holding onto both of Sherlock’s upper arms. He instantly jerked back, trying to pull away, “Let go!” he said, heart pounding in his chest.

“Shh, you _will_ thank me someday brother, I promise you,” he said, his face full of earnest.

 Sherlock continued to try and jerk away, but Mycroft simply wrapped his arms around him, and Sherlock was almost reminded of when they were younger, and Sherlock had skinned his knee, Mycroft pulling him close.

“It won’t hurt.” He heard the whisper in his ear just before he felt a sharp pain in his neck, like two pieces of glass piercing the skin. He gasped, body jerking once before the pain dulled down, being replaced by a tingling sensation that started to spread from it.

He shivered, pushing away from his brother though his efforts of freeing himself became weakened after a moment, limbs feeling heavy.

Mycroft’s mouth was pressed to Sherlock’s neck as he drank deeply, lowering them both to the ground as the younger man’s knees started to give.

“Mm…Myc…” Sherlock murmured, his head light. He started to feel cold, lifting an arm that felt like lead to try and pull at his brother’s sleeve. His heart started to slow, and he was so tired… “M’croft…please, he said drowsily.

A moment later Mycroft lifted his head, wiping a dark smear away from his mouth, looking down at the pale face of his brother, placing a hand over one cheek. Sherlock’s breaths were slow, shallow, the light almost gone from his eyes.

“It’s alright Sherl…I’m going to take care of everything. Of you, I promised,” he said, lifting his wrist up to his mouth and biting down into it. “Come now brother, drink,” he urged the dying man he held in his lap, almost cradling him as he had when he’d been an infant.

Sherlock felt adrift, like he was at sea, so tired. He heard Mycroft’s voice, and felt the sense of security he’d felt when he was younger and he heard it. Thunder storms were the worst, but nights in general were always hard. _Now Sherlock, there’s no need to be afraid of the dark, it’s the things you_ can _see that you want to be afraid of, not the things you can’t._

He felt something press up against his mouth, a thick liquid pouring into it, and heard the gentle order again. “Drink.” And he did.

* * *

 

**2010**

And here he sat, two hundred and sixty two years later, listening to the woman who he could still hear crying as she took refuge in the café downstairs.

He let out another long suffering sigh. Tedious, boring, predictable. Almost three hundred years of living, and of all of them there were only three he could think back on with any genuine fondness, but he didn't think back on that.

No, he saved those years, because if he went over them as often as he went over any other memories he had, he would get bored of them. And he didn’t want to be bored of them, of him. They had been the best, and most exciting of his long, long life.

And he wouldn't waste them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to get the next one up soon! The next will show us more into what John is up to, and perhaps offer a bit of action.


	3. Paper in a Fold of Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just over five months from returning from Afghanistan, John has grown tired of the routine that has become his life. Under the assumption nothing happens to him, things take a turn for the worst when something finally does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in John's perspective.
> 
> I will add it into the tags, but slight trigger warning for this chapter for suicidal/self harm thoughts, as well as blood.

“How’s the blog coming along?” Ella smiled at John good naturedly, clipboard sitting on her lap.

“Yeah, good. Really good,” John replied. How many times would he sit here in the same office and continue to lie?

“You haven’t written a single word have you?” she asked with a smile, always able to tell when he was lying it seemed, well not always.  She didn’t know, but then he never let on, never told the whole truth. It was better that way really.

“You just wrote still has trust issues,” he said, nodding towards the clipboard in her lap.  
“And you read my writing upside down,” she countered, “See what I mean?” She let out a breath. “We’ve been over this John, it’s going to take time to adjust, and writing down what happens to you will help.”

John scoffed a little, “Nothing happens to me, and I’ve tried adjusting. Done everything you asked, save for the blog. I go for a walk every day, tried reconnecting to Harry though she makes it right difficult to, even applied for a couple jobs,” he said, letting out a slow breath. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to do, you keep telling me to give it time, as if I can do anything else but that.”

The therapist looked at John steadily, writing something else down, her clipboard tilted up a bit more so John couldn’t read it. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry…I’m just getting impatient with it all. I keep waiting for things to feel normal again. I’ve been back for nearly five bloody months…but nothing feels like it should.” He shook his head, looking up when he heard the timer indicating his session was over.

Niceties were exchanged, and the promise of seeing each other the following week was made once more. The only part of the pattern that had changed the last few months was that when John made that promise, he never felt sure of it anymore. Would he see her next week? Would he even be around then?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

* * *

John’s breath rose from his mouth in swirls, each exhale bringing about a puff of mist from his lips. He was standing what seemed to be a park, though it wasn’t one he could remember being in before. Though oddly, it felt familiar.

He looked around slowly, then looked up, seeing patches of stars amongst the thick clouds above him. He had the sense he was waiting for something, only he didn’t know what it was.

Snow started to drift down from the sky, and John heard a noise. A moment later there was a loud bang, a shot ringing out and John was on his back, pain having torn through his shoulder and radiating throughout his body. He looked up, seeing the snow fall down on top of him, hearing the shouts of his name once more as his eyes closed.

* * *

 

John’s eyes opened quickly as he jolted awake. He gasped a little, rolling onto his back from his left side. He hated when he did that, rolled over in his sleep. He’d woken up several times from his left side, and just like every time he did so his shoulder throbbed painfully.

John sat up, looking around the small bedsit he lived in currently, rubbing his shoulder as his eyes swept over the bare walls. He’d had the dream five times now, roughly once every three or four weeks and he still didn’t understand it. Why the snow? Why that place?

He looked at the clock next to his bedside table, nearly four in the morning. He sighed, standing up and crossing the room to his desk. He pulled out his laptop, hesitating as he saw his Browning in the drawer. It was loaded, he knew it was loaded, because he checked it.

Every day, he checked it.

After ten minutes at looking at a blank blog post he shut the lid to his laptop and pulled out some clothes, getting dressed and pulling on his jacket before heading out the door with his cane.

* * *

 It had become something of habit, morning walks. It wouldn’t be any different than it had every other time he’d gone on a walk. He would limp down in the direction of the park, by the time he made it there the sun would start rising and there was a café where he would get coffee.

It was probably an hour and a half before sunrise when John nears the park. His leg is sore, his shoulder is as well but it always is to some degree. He thinks for a moment about going back home, maybe trying to sleep, but he figured he’s gone this far into the walk he might as well finish.

That, and the chances of him being able to sleep are very slim.

John turns down an alley, a shortcut he’d started taking rather than going all the way around the block and having to back track. Yes he was walking to help time pass, but that didn’t mean he had to be inefficient about it, he was still a solider after all.

As he turned down part of the alley he saw another person walking towards him. He stepped a little more to the other side of the alley, keeping his head down. Still though the man managed to slam his shoulder into John’s as he passed, throwing the soldier off balance hissing in pain as it was his left shoulder.

“Watch where you’re go-” he was cut off as he was shoved roughly against the wall, the man brandishing a knife.

“I want everything you got, now!” the man insisted, thrusting the knife towards John. He couldn’t clearly see his face, it was still dark and he had a hood up. “Now!” he said again.

John held his hands up, “Easy, easy there…calm down,” he said, wishing his cane wasn’t on the ground, he had dropped it when the man slammed into him. He reached slowly into to his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Just take it...” he said, knowing he wasn’t in much of a position where he stood.

The mugger blinked a couple times, then reached out his other hand and grabbed towards the wallet.

John reacted, grabbing at the man’s hand and lifting his knee up quickly and slammed it into the man’s chest. He grabbed the mugger’s right hand with his left, trying to force him to drop the blade.

The plan was perfectly executed save for one thing, John’s strength was still somewhat diminished in his left side and the man managed to thrust his arm upwards, burying the knife in to John’s side where it stuck between two ribs.

John’s eyes were wide and he froze, the man jerking away as if surprised that the knife had actually gone into him. But what else did he expect the knife to do?

“You…you fucking idiot! Why’d you have to…fuck!” he shouted, backing away before he took off down the alley.

John’s mouth was slightly agape, and he blinked rapidly as he tilted his head down, seeing the blade buried to the hilt in the side of his chest.

Everything seemed still for a moment, and John didn’t even feel much of anything yet, just looking at his side as he started to see himself bleed. John was a doctor, he’d been trained to handle situations such as these. He knew that if the knife was still in the wound it was best to leave it there as it would slow the bleeding.

He knew this, and yet his hand had closed on the handle of the blade. It was as if a part of himself thought _“this isn’t supposed to be here, better get rid of it”_ before he could even think to stop it. He let out a strangled gasp as the knife clattered to the ground of the alley, and his hand was pressed to his side.

He couldn’t breathe properly, _punctured lung Watson, good job_ …he leaned back against the wall, breaths rapid and hitching. Pain with each breath from the hole in his lung, as well as pain coming from the hole in his chest.

He leaned up against the alley wall and slid down it slowly, feeling the warmth running between his fingers and down his side. His heart was pounding in his chest and he knew that with each throb it was pushing more and more of his blood out of his body, killing him.

He gasped, coughing a little as the alley seemed to shift and he was laying on the cold ground, his vision going a blurry around the edges.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approach him, for no sound came from them, but he saw the blurred outlines of a pair of shoes in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger shouldn't be for long. I'm sorry for not having it up yet! D: School is a bit of a priority I am afraid. My work load goes down after Wednesday so that's the latest it should go up. Sorry lovelies!


	4. Not Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stumbles upon a familiar face and into the memories he keeps buried at all costs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Sorry it took me so long to update, though maybe it only felt so long. It's been less than a week, but still...it was longer than I wanted it to be.

It had been more or less a fruitless night when it came to cases, Lestrade hardly having anything for him other than a handful of cold cases. They took Sherlock less than twenty minutes.

Still, the night wasn’t a complete waste, he had come across a woman about to be assaulted and apprehended her attacker. One glamour and a pint or so of blood later and Sherlock was properly satiated for the night and the filth of a human being was walking himself to New Scotland Yard to turn himself in.

He still preferred night, despite however false rumors and legends about his kind were. But then, he had liked walking London’s streets when he’d been a human, the city significantly smaller then.

The night also offered him better opportunity for something interesting to happen, or to at least get a good meal, as he had tonight. Criminals and lowlifes rarely did their dealings in the day time, save for the occasional bank robber, but he didn’t interfere with those. Far too much surveillance, and not the kind his brother owned.

Sherlock was walking back to his flat when the wind brought the scent to his attention. It made him stop where he stood, nearly to Baker Street, and he lifted his head. That wasn’t right though, he wanted to say impossible, but he never used that word, not with the life he’d lived. He took off after it.

Being alive, in so many words, for as long as he had, and being of his nature, Sherlock had encountered a multitude of scents. Humans always had the best when it came to blood, but each one was different. Like fingerprints almost, though certain things, he’d noticed, could be inherited. This lead to the different tastes among cultures, and oh did he taste them, sampling as he traveled.

In his youth of his second life, Sherlock had traveled the world, discovering it, often before others did. He was probably one of the first from England to see the West Coast of what would someday become America. He had little doubt that the peoples there thought him a demon, perhaps they still tell stories about him even now.

But of all the scents that surrounded the world, Sherlock had only really ever found one that really lured him, and as he sought its source he thought to the last time he had experienced it, and it was perhaps the worst night of his existence. Regent’s Park, 1882; he shook his head, no…not thinking about that now.

It took only a minute to reach the mouth of the alley that the smell was pouring out of. Blood, and a lot of it. But along with the smell of blood came the scent of desperation, and the sounds of it as well.

Sherlock flitted down the alley silently, able to hear the rapid fire beating of a heart that was trying far too hard, and would soon give up upon its owner.

He paused, looking down at the figure at his feet, a blond man lying face down, his hand loosely pressed over a wound in his side. A moment later Sherlock knelt down, easing the man onto his back.

Shock was not something that happened to Sherlock, it was rare and usually fleeting to the point where no one even realized it had happened save for himself. Sherlock was so often able to deduce and know what was about to happen that very little caught him by surprise, and yet the man laying before him did exactly that.

It couldn’t be possible, and yet there he was. However improbable that it was, he was there.

Cornflower blue eyes opened, light almost gone from them, rolling about in their sockets. They never focused, not once, though the way they moved it seemed almost as if they were searching for something.

And when they met Sherlock’s gaze the barricade he kept on that part of his memories was torn down, and he remembered the first time he saw those eyes.

* * *

 

**1879**

“I still do not understand why it is you are forcing me to be here,” Sherlock hissed to his brother as they approached the large warehouse.

“William-”

“Sherlock,” he corrected sharply, rolling his eyes. He hardly cared that that was what he had to go by for now. They couldn’t simply keep the same name consistently, it would draw attention. Sherlock thankfully had been given three names with which he rotated every few decades. But in private that hardly mattered.

“Sherlock then. You are here, because we are, as prominent members to the council,” Mycroft started.

“You’re a prominent member,” Sherlock quipped.

“Yes, and you are not only my brother, but I am your Sire. It is expected that you take part.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “As I was saying, as prominent members, we must be present in enforcing of the new laws. We take human companions, yes. But the time of simply _taking_ them is past, it is now expected to be mutual…consensual. The capture, and selling of humans is prohibited, this place is illegal to the laws of our kind, and we carry out justice as it were.”

Sherlock sighed, his brother might think this change was so easy coming, but it hardly was. While sale of humans was on the decline, any vampire with the ability to glamour can easily force a human to be theirs. But Mycroft was insistent, saying that if humans could abolish the sale of humans as they had some forty-six years before, then they should as well. Part of his belief that their kind was superior to humans.

They were of course, in many ways, but Sherlock soon found their kind to be as tedious and boring as humans.

It didn’t take long for the two of them, as well as several of Mycroft’s affiliates from the council had infiltrated the warehouse under the guise of prospective buyers. There were only a handful of vampires running the slave house, which was all that was needed. Humans could hardly defend themselves, or escape.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose upon entering, the whole place smelling of filth and sweat and fear. He was given the assignment of going into the back rooms and releasing the humans kept there, while the rest took over the auction hall, clapping the owners of the warehouse in silver to await trial. It didn’t kill them, but it weakened them substantially, and didn’t half burn.

He simply had to follow his nose to find the rooms where the humans were kept, finding them bound and gagged. Some of them had already been bitten, their wounds left wide open. It was disgusting. He untied them one by one, biting into his finger and giving the ones that needed it a drop or two of his blood to heal their bites, before glamouring them so they wouldn’t remember any encounter with his kind.

He was nearly done when he smelled it, and the scent threw him. Human, obviously. But it was different somehow.

He followed the scent, up a flight of stairs, opening what had to be an office to one of the head auctioneers. Inside was a man, arms chained up above his head, blindfolded. There were a few bites on him, his neck, his chest, and one on the exposed skin of his underarm. The human’s head lifted when he entered, and even with the blindfold over his eyes Sherlock could tell that he was glaring in the direction of the door.

“Why haven’t you just…killed me?” he asked, Sherlock could hear the anger and exhaustion in his voice, this man was past the point of being afraid. Which was odd, considering his position.

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock asked, looking at the blond, his slight form. He was wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, even his feet were bare. He knew how long he'd been there of course, clear from the sight of him.

The blond leaned his head back, obviously thrown by the different voice. “I…who’s there?”

“Answer the question,” Sherlock said, stepping a bit closer, the scent of the man’s blood drawing him closer, though Sherlock had long ago controlled his thirst.

The human’s head hung a little as he shook his head. “I don’t...I don't know. A…week, maybe,” he said, licking his lips. The man was thin, dehydrated, no doubt in pain from being strung up as he was, though Sherlock would say he’d only been in this particular position for a day or so.

“I am not here to kill you,” he said, “The ones who did this to you are being arrested, and will go to trial.” The blond shook his head.

“You cannot arrest them, they…they’re fast. And strong, impossibly strong,” he said.

Sherlock smirked, reaching forward and grabbing the iron chains, pulling them out of the wall. He caught the man as he fell forward, not able to hold himself up. “So am I,” he said, carefully lowering the man onto the floor.

A pained noise rose from him as his arms lowered, frozen in place from being held up so long no doubt. Still, he weakly pushed away from Sherlock shaking his head. “You…you’re one of them?” he said, and Sherlock could hear his heart rate rise a bit.

“Yes, though I would rather not affiliate myself with the filth they are, I am, as you put it, one of them.” He reached forward and pulled the blindfold off of the man.

Cautious, light blue eyes met his, holding his gaze for a moment. He could see the exhaustion, the pain, could read everything in those eyes except what was not there. Fear.

“You’re not afraid.” It wasn’t a question.

The blond was biting down on the inside of his lip slightly. “Mmnot,” he said, shaking his head.

Sherlock knew he should have glamoured him, he was supposed to, it was his job. But the other humans, they were begging, crying…even the men. This man though, even with his bites and obvious abuse, not a whiff of fear in him, and Sherlock was reluctant.

“You’re in pain,” Sherlock noted, looking at the man, who was too weak to stand, leaning heavily against the wall that he had been chained to not moments before. “I can help that…heal the wounds from where he bit you. Though, you may find the process… distasteful.” 

The human’s forehead creased a little in question, so Sherlock lifted his right hand, then dragged a nail across the base of his thumb, a dark line of scarlet appearing. It took a moment for the realization to come, and the man started to shake his head.

“You can fuss about your ideals on just what the purpose of blood is based on the very limited view point of your human existence, or you can attempt to accept the fact that the blood of my kind is very different than that of yours, and just might prevent you from possibly dying of some disease in the next few days which I might add, in your condition is very likely," he said quickly. He wasn’t going to lie to the human.

The man seemed to consider this, looking at the small bit of blood that had welled up in Sherlock’s palm, the cut having healed already. “Wh-what will it do?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I have told you already, or has the blood loss and malnutrition made you lose your grasp on English? It will heal the bites that have been neglected and left to fester on you, as well as help your body replenish the blood you lost,” he said. “These are good things, which as a doctor you should both appreciate and understand." The man looked at him, stunned.

“How did you know-”

“Because I saw it, but that is neither here nor there.” He brought his hand towards the man’s mouth. If he fought him on it then Sherlock would just glamour him to take it and be on his way, despite not wanting to, it would be done. The man however, though he hesitated, didn’t try to reject the hand, allowing the blood to tip into his mouth, and he swallowed it, wincing a little.

“Try not to think about it too much. I am sure it tastes much better than many of the medicines you have offered patients in the past,” he said, working on prying the metal cuffs off of the man’s wrists. As he did he could see the punctures on the side of his neck close slowly. He met the man’s gaze once the cuffs were off.

“I am supposed to make you forget all of this,” he said simply.

“Then why haven’t you?” the human asked, eyes heavy with exhaustion. That was common after drinking vampire blood, especially depending on how injured you were.

“I want to know your name,” Sherlock said, as if this offered explanation.

A pause, and then “John.” The blue eyes fluttered a bit as he struggled to stay awake. “Johnathan James Walters.” He said breathlessly. “You…Are you going to make me forget?” he asked.

Sherlock was conflicted as he looked into the blue eyes, and he shook his head. “No,” he said, standing up and going to the desk, scrawling down the address at which he lived. He walked back to the man, pressing the paper into his palm.

“You know about us now… and it can be dangerous. Should you ever need anything…find me,” he said, not knowing why he was extending the offer. John was…interesting. His scent alone had caught Sherlock’s attention, but there was more to him than that apparently, which surprised him.

"I don't...I don't know your name." The human murmured drowsily. Sherlock stood, turning to leave the room, able to hear that the building was cleared out now. He glanced around the room, seeing a coat that no doubt had a wallet in it hanging up. John seemed smart enough, he would find the warmth and funds he needed to get home once he awoke.

He looked back at John, “Sherlock Holmes, and it has been…surprisingly, a pleasure," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly before he left, hearing the human’s breathing even out as he fell asleep.

* * *

**2010**

“ _John…_ ” the name was pulled out of his mouth a moment after the man’s eyes opened, the entire recollection taking a second or so. He knelt instantly at his side, his hand moving to push away the human’s, which was covered in blood, pressing it firmly to the wound.

The human let out a strangled gasp, eyes widening as he tried to move away from the pressure on his wound, only jerking once.

It was John…but how? It couldn’t have been possible, but it looked like him…and that scent…perhaps a descendant? It didn’t matter, Sherlock couldn’t lose him…not again.

He pulled the smaller man’s head up onto his lap and bit viciously into his own wrist in a hurry, lowering it down to press gently against the human’s lips.

He coughed, sputtering as he turned his head _away_ from Sherlock’s wrist. “Don’t do that, you idiot. Unless you’d rather die,” he half growled, desperate. He wasn’t sure the man could hear him, he didn’t care. He forced his still bleeding wrist against the man’s mouth, leaving him no choice but to swallow.

After a couple mouthfuls the man started to actively drink, weakly, but he was pulling the blood from Sherlock’s wrist, rather than just swallowing to clear his airway.

“Good…good, John...” Sherlock breathed, relief seeping into his tone. He felt the wound beneath his fingers close slowly, but continued to offer his wrist, staring into the dazed, unfocused eyes that he’d felt so certain he’d never see again.

Sherlock could hear the man’s heart beat become stronger after a few minutes, and his eyes fluttered shut. He pulled his wrist away from the man’s mouth, swiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth to catch the stray drops there.

He would live. Sherlock looked around the alley, and then back down at the man, resting his hand cautiously on the side of his face. It wasn’t as warm as it should have been, but he had lost a lot of blood, it would take time for him to replenish it.

A moment later Sherlock stood, lifting the man up and quickly flitting home to his flat, entering it just as the sun started to rise. He carried him into his bedroom and set him on the bed. He stepped into the bathroom and grabbed a cloth, wetting it down.

Sherlock then tore what remained of the man’s bloodied shirt from his torso, wiping down his side, now free from any wound, nor sign that it had been there. His eyes moved up the slight frame, and started to read the man. Slightly under weight, not eating, his eyes had had bags beneath them, though those would likely disappear once the blood worked its way through the man’s system.

It was then he saw the starburst scar on his left shoulder, and Sherlock would have paled if he could have. He reached out and touched it lightly, pulling his hand away quickly and shaking his head. One memory of that time in his life a night was more than enough.

 He noticed a chain at the man’s throat, lifting it up to reveal dog tags that had fallen behind him.

Watson, John Hamish. Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk at that. Impossible as it seemed, but the universe was rarely lazy, and this… “John Hamish Watson.” He said softly, the name falling on deaf ears as the human that lay before him was in far too deep of sleep, body repairing itself.

“You must have been right…Johnathan,” he said softly, “All those years ago, you were right. I would see you again. I am sorry for not believing you,” he murmured, disposing of the bloodied shirt and pulling a blanket up over the man. He tucked himself in the corner of his bedroom, settling into his chair as sunlight started to filter in lightly through the window.

He’d waited one hundred and twenty-eight years, he could wait a day longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case the name thing doesn't pop up later, it might, but I don't know. John as we know is a very common name so I didn't think to change that. However, Hamish, when you look up the name origins is of Scottish origin, but is basically the equivalence of James. Watson is of English and Scottish origin and means "Son of Walter". And I did look, Walters was a name that was and is around in England. 
> 
> I realize it's not exact, and no I'm not going to explain because...well I don't know. Coincidence I would say, but perhaps the universe in this one instance is kind. 
> 
> All in all: Johnathan James Walters is sort of the same name as John Hamish Watson.  
> But that's me grabbing at straws I guess.


	5. Who Are You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...It's been a while. Long while actually...but I've finally got some motivation to continue this story. Can't say how fast it'll be updated, but I finished another chapter. I start school again soon but I'm wanting to learn to take some time for myself, doing things I enjoy so I'm wanting to get this story done! It's been a sliver I can't quite get out of my head.

John’s head ached slightly, a gentle and consistent throb. That was what he was first aware of as he started to come to. The next thing being a dull ache in his side, as if he’d pulled a muscle. He shifted slightly on the bed, a soft hum escaping him. He realized after some time that what he was laying on wasn’t his bed. He dragged his eyes open, his gaze focusing on an unfamiliar room. There was a slight shuffle, and a man was suddenly standing by the bed, a couple feet away, his expression…one of anxiety but also something else that John didn’t understand.

He tried to sit up quickly, wincing and gripping his side, which was most definitely sore.

“Careful… just, take it easy. You’re safe,” a baritone voice laced with worry said, as a pair of hands appeared and helped him sit up against the headboard. John blinked a couple times, rubbing his head.

“I…what…what’s going on?” he asked, glancing around the room again before looking at the man. He blinked a couple times as he actually looked at him, something about him seemed… he almost wanted to say familiar, only it wasn’t. Still, John couldn’t look away.

“You were attacked, mugged…or rather I should say someone attempted to mug you, as your wallet and its contents were still present in the alley,” he said, handing a glass of water to John, as well as a bottle of aspirin.

John looked down at the bottle carefully, before pulling out a couple capsules and swallowing them, draining the entire glass of water. “Mm…thanks,” he hummed, looking at the man, who had sat next to the bed, his eyes still glued on him. He shifted a little in the bed, not sure what the man was looking at.

There was a moment of silence as he drank down the entire glass of water, setting it aside. He still didn’t feel entirely awake, but as he became more alert he finally started to remember the alley and his hand quickly moved to his side again. His shirt was gone, and his side…completely smooth. “What?” he breathed, brows knitted together in confusion.

“So you do remember,” the man said softly. “I wasn’t sure you would, you were quite nearly gone when I came upon you,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair he’d moved next to the bed.

“Remember what?” John asked. It had to be wrong, because he somewhat remembered the mugger, the knife. But he must have dreamed the rest because he’d taken a knife to his abdomen. It had felt real though, far too real.

“You remember precisely John,” he said. “You were stabbed, nearly died. However, I happened by you and was able to help. Just in time, as it were.” The tone from the other seemed to say more with the second statement. As if there was some unsaid meaning laced into the words ‘in time’.

John shook his head. “That’s impossible,” he said, running his fingers up and down his side. “There’s nothing here,” he said, trying to move towards the edge of the bed and feeling his head go a little light.

A pair of hands quickly eased him back against the headboard. “I saved your life John, but if you continue trying to move about you will injure yourself further, you need time to heal,” he said quickly.

“And just who the hell are you?” John asked quickly, defensiveness in his tone. He couldn’t help it really. He felt off, more than normal. Ever since that day in the desert he hadn’t felt in place, like everything had shifted and was wrong. Somehow being in this room didn’t feel that way entirely but still, that alone made him suspicious.

The man smirked. “Of course, how rude of me,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes. You’re in my home, I’ve lived here quite some time,” he said with another smirk.

“And how did you-“

“Know your name? Simple enough given your various forms of identification more notably in your wallet which I’ve retrieved for you and around your neck. Not to mention your mobile. Though I didn’t go through the latter, no point really,” he said. “I also know that you’ve recently been invalided back from military service overseas, somewhere warm and arid. You took a bullet to your shoulder, through and through though you walk with a limp which your therapist believes to be psychosomatic, she’s quite correct I’m afraid. Now you’re living in London, though you’re not planning to for long, though not through any choice of your own,” he said, sitting back in the chair to watch John. See how he reacted.

John was simply staring at the man sitting by the bed, blinking a couple times. Some of that was obvious, but the rest…how had he known that? The other seemed to wait patiently for an answer. “What sort of name is Sherlock?” he asked, not the one he was expecting but it felt like a sliver in the back of his mind and it stuck out.

“An old one,” Sherlock replied with a small smile.

“Right…okay,” John said, his hand still on his side. “How could you know any of that?” he asked.

“I didn’t know, I saw. But that’s not what you’re wanting to ask John, you keep touching your side. You know there’s no trace of a wound there save for the soreness of it. That will be gone shortly by the way. You don’t understand why it’s not there, makes perfect sense of course. You’re a doctor, such a wound would have been fatal in a doctor’s hands, especially if you’d had to wait for an ambulance.”

“But there isn’t a wound,” John started.

“Precisely, which leaves only one possible explanation, and that is I have a method of removing evidence of such a wound. You’re training will tell you it is impossible but I can already tell part of you believes such a thing,” Sherlock said calmly.

John was quiet for a moment, thinking. Something about this felt familiar… he wasn’t sure he liked that. The way he’d been feeling, it made everything normal feel wrong. And now this felt, comfortable almost. That feeling alone made him feel rather uncomfortable with the whole situation. Just another example of his life never falling back into place, perhaps it never would. A part of himself he didn’t recognize was telling him this was fine, a good thing. But he didn’t trust that, it didn’t feel like him.

He looked at Sherlock, brows furrowed slightly. The man was rather pale, his dark curls and bright icy eyes setting off stark contrast to his pallor. Something around the ring of his iris’ caught his attention, an almost silver looking glint. He hadn’t seen it on someone before, but then it must have just been some odd genetic trait. What else could it be?

“How.” It came out as more of a demand than a question, and it made Sherlock smile slightly.

“I have my methods; they arise as part of the circumstances surrounding my…condition. You’ve already noticed, but I’m not like you,” he said. “And I do not mean that in terms of personality,” Sherlock said, shifting in the chair slightly. John wasn’t sure how he felt about the way the other looked at him, as if appraising something for damage and value all at once. Something important.

“Not like me?” John watched as the other man sighed and then held out his hand patiently.

“You’re a doctor, find out for yourself,” he said, holding his hand out patiently.

John carefully reached out after a moment of hesitation and took the hand into his. He hadn’t expected the cool skin, not in such a warm flat. He looked over the hand, not sure what he was supposed to look for. When the hand turned supine in his own he caught the hint and put his fingers to the radial artery to take a pulse.

He blinked after a pause, trying to rearrange his fingers to find it.

“There’s nothing wrong with your placement,” Sherlock said calmly as John continued to look for it. He finally let go of the hand, looking up at Sherlock with a creased forehead.

“That’s not possible-”

“And yet here I am,” Sherlock said, gesturing with both of his hands to his person. “Difficult to comprehend I’m sure, however you did once.”

“What?”

“Slip of the tongue,” Sherlock said quickly. “Just understand that the world is perhaps not as narrow in it’s populace than you previously understood it to be.”

John blinked a few times, still trying to comprehend how someone without a pulse could be sitting there talking to him. How this same someone could make a knife wound just disappear. John had felt himself slipping, in the alley. He’d felt himself dying. He knew it wasn’t just an exaggeration, because he’d died before. In that desert, he knew what it felt like to bleed out, to feel yourself drowning without any water present.

“You need time, I understand-”

“I need to leave.” The statement spilled out of his lips before the thought even occurred to him. He looked up, seeing a slight slip in the controlled expression of the other that almost looked like disappointment.

“I understand,” Sherlock said with a nod. “I’ll retrieve your coat, I’ve washed it for you, your shirt however was irreparably damaged. Allow me to at least call you a cab and see you down the steps. Shame it would be for you to fall down them. You’re still healing after all,” he said as he stood.

Ten minutes later John was getting into a cab and Sherlock handed a good amount of money to the driver to cover the fare, whatever it wound up being. John thanked him and gave the address to his bedsit, wanting to sleep and not think too much on what was…or should have been impossible.

He went home to his flat and wound up sleeping for the rest of the day and well into the night, but the dreams kept coming back. Only now, as he lay in the snow watching the flakes drift lazily towards him and he heard his name being called, he recognized the voice.


	6. Memories of a Time Long Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds himself delving into his past, to memories he rarely visited.

**1879**

Boring. The same tedium that had become his daily life resumed quickly after the raid on the warehouse. Their kind were so slow to change sometimes, but the grace period following the banning of blood slaves was well over, so consequences were necessary.

Not that Sherlock particularly wanted to go on raids constantly. He didn’t want to become a policeman to his own kind. That was even more tedious than helping humans. At least humans changed over time, with each new generation and the discoveries they made the world moved. People grew, his kind just stayed the same and grew nothing but stagnant.

So when his house keeper knocked on the door a week after the raid he sighed from his perch on his armchair, his legs hanging over the side as his fingers were steepled under his chin. Another client, how thrilling.

“Just show them up Mrs. Williams,” he said lazily. She was a kind enough woman, one of the few humans he actually found tolerable. He’d met her when she was a younger woman. Widowed now, though not as tragically as everyone thought. No, he had made sure her husband met the appropriate end, though not before adapting his will to be overly generous to his wife. Before he’d had everything lined up to go to his Mistress, while his wife was more a tool for his…amusement. He took her on as housekeeper, giving her the flat below him and a monthly stipend in exchange for her services.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes when he heard the footsteps on the stairs, not the usual pattern of someone eager for his services, nor the inspector he worked with from time to time. No, there was apprehension here. The feet stopped in the doorway and Sherlock cracked his eye open slightly.

“I believe you… gave me your address,” the blond man in the doorway said, holding it up. Sherlock sat up properly in the chair, nodding.

“I would have thought you wouldn’t show, given the time that’s passed. I trust you made it to your home safely after your rest?” he asked. “Would you care for some tea? Mrs. Williams makes some round this time, I can be sure that she will likely prepare two cups now as I have a guest,” he said as he gestured to the seat across from him.

“It was Walters, correct?” Sherlock asked, though he remembered the man’s name perfectly.

“Yes. Yours was… Holmes?”

“Indeed, though you could call me Sherlock if you wish. I’ve not a problem with given names used in personal context,” he said, watching the human carefully. “You’ve got questions,” he stated as the other moved into the room and sat down carefully.

John paused a beat. “Indeed I do,” he finally replied. “All of the people from that warehouse, they were gone, the ones that took us… and you’re like they are. Different in the same way that they were,” he said.

“Yes.”

“It has been bothering me since my return home. I wish you would elaborate on these differences. The man whose office I was in. He would…bite me.” John said this carefully as if having trouble believing it himself.

“I imagine he would,” Sherlock responded. “That was their purpose for having you and the others there. The word you are looking for already exists though you may not be happy in hearing it,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair.

John let out a heavy breath. “I’ve thought it through, and I think I know this word. However, I do not know how such things exist.”

“Stories must come from somewhere, Walters,” Sherlock said, understanding that for the human this must all have been rather hard to comprehend. Humans liked their small world, their safe world. Sherlock himself had been eager to explore what he knew the world to offer when he had been a human, but he’d had no idea the extent of things.

To Sherlock’s surprise the human nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “And you… you were at that warehouse to put a stop to everything?”

“Yes. The actions of those we detained were illegal among our kind, had been for three years. As I understand such raids are common now and it’s someone’s job to find humans in the situation you were in,” Sherlock explained.

“That’s not your job then?”

“Certainly not, I was coerced. More or less. I was there at the heed of my brother, as a favour of sorts. I work freelance, as a detective for various parties when the need arises. So where is it you will go now then Walters?” he asked. “You clearly don’t have permanent residence here in the city, evidenced by your dress, the way you are holding your shoulders, as well as the scent of the soap coming from your clothes. Laundered at a prominent hotel that has decent pricing. Tell me, if you were visiting from out of the city, why have you not returned after your ordeal? And were you perhaps looking for more permanent lodgings?”

________________________________

**1880**

“Holmes.” John seemed to wait for a response, though there wasn’t one from the form lounging in his armchair, seemingly deep in thought. “ _Holmes_ ,” the voice said more insistently.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, fingers steepled under his chin.

“Sherlock,” the voice finally said, somewhat resigned. Sherlock opened his eyes at hearing this, looking at the blond man directly. It wasn’t as if he was deliberately training John to do so, but he did so ever like hearing his name, especially when spoken by his human flatmate, so he was more likely to give John the attention he wanted when he used it.

“Do not think it has escaped my notice, but you have not eaten in over a week. Nine days if I recall correctly.” Sherlock sighed laboriously.

“I had some of that toast Mrs. Hudson brought the other morning,” he murmured though he could already hear the intake of breath from the other that indicated he was about to rebut his statement.

“You know precisely that I do not mean tending to a diet you do not require. I speak of the one that sustains you. The one that makes you stop looking at all of us as if we are a five course meal,” John said as he folded his arms.

“I don’t see why this is of concern to you Walters-”

“It is concern of me because I am human, and so are the people you work with. I do not think that the inspector would appreciate you biting another one of his people. Don’t think he didn’t notice how differently Jeffries acted after your, encounter,” he said. “You’ll be caught.”

“Jeffries is an imbecile, he deserved it. Quite nearly ruined the state of things at that factory. His scent was all over-” He was cut off by a sigh from the other.

This had become a rather common occurrence in Sherlock’s life the last several months, one that at times could be a nuisance but Sherlock found it rather…endearing. Quite a new feeling for him as he found most humans to be tedious and dull, however Johnathan was… incandescent.

He had since moved in with Sherlock and their relationship was one that others might find, abnormal. Two bachelors of their age, or rather Sherlock’s supposed age. John seemed to show little interest in pursuing outside…interests. But really, not having him come home smelling of perfume was quite nice.

“Imbecile or not,” John started to say, Sherlock’s thoughts having distracted him for only a second though it felt much longer. “You lost your control, you really must tend to your nature more Sherlock.”

“Do you understand the amount of work that requires?” Sherlock said. “ _Hunting,_ so tedious. Finding a suitable human, one that even smells appetizing. Some humans are immune to glamour so if I choose the wrong one then they can remember my face, which requires me traveling farther from Baker Street.”

There was a moment of quiet as John seemed to be considering something. “And what of myself?” he inquired.

“What of you?” Sherlock asked plainly, as if such a thought had never occurred to him. It had of course. John’s scent was quite, alluring. But given the circumstances he found John in, he rather assumed John would want nothing to do with such things again. Then again, he had moved in with Sherlock, who was cut from the same cloth as the designers of John’s previous torture. John had actually been in that warehouse for almost two weeks.

“You know precisely what I am implying, Holmes. We have had many a conversation of the nature of your kind. You need not make anything you do while…receiving sustenance, painful. And we both know that you are able to take steps to counteract the physical damage and loss of blood,” John said, adjusting himself in his chair as he looked calmly at Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a breath, not having told John about that particular aspect of his kind. “John, that is not advisable. I am quite sure you would not wish to engage in such an…act,” he said carefully. He was given a look by the other that indicated that he clearly wanted him to explain. Sherlock sighed, sitting up in his chair a little more.

“I have given you my blood already, such a thing is significant. We did so at the warehouse as it was a matter of necessity and reparations. They only received a drop, you were given slightly more. But we can tell which humans have had our blood, and we can make a point not to feed from these humans to avoid forming any kind of bond.”

“A bond?” John inquired, seeming a little confused. Sherlock continued to explain.

“When we give our blood to a human, and then proceed to feed from them or we do so the other way around, it forms a bond between the two. It manifests in different ways, but it is a bond nonetheless. You might feel more…inclined to be close to me. The effect is reciprocal of course, even with you only having my blood once I am more…attuned to you,” he said softly.

John seemed to consider this, looking at Sherlock steadily. “Is this something you’re not wanting to initiate?”

“Are you implying that you are?”

“I’m merely implying that such a…relationship is not something I am averse to.” Sherlock blinked a couple times at John’s response, looking at him steadily. He had rather started to get ideas of his friends…inclinations. While Sherlock rarely thought of such things, he admitted himself somewhat pleased that he was correct.

“Well, then perhaps we could explore this topic further,” Sherlock said with a rare smile directed at his companion.


	7. You Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand I'm back. Or trying to be. On summer break now, but amazingly, life didn't get easier. Which means I have to acknowledge that my trouble doing things I enjoy...or things in general, wasn't just stress related. Anyway, new ch

**2010**

When John finally woke up the following morning he didn’t know what to do with himself. Part of him wanted to dismiss the entire memory as a dream but he knew it felt entirely too real for that. It felt more real than his day to day life had for months now. As impossible as it was to try and understand how it was that this Sherlock person made a stab wound disappear…he almost felt as if part of him trusted that this was true.

The evidence was plainly there: he had a memory of being stabbed, feeling near death, again. And then it was gone, and that man was there. A man whom he’d just met, yet somehow had heard in his dreams from the moment he was shot in Afghanistan. How could someone dream of a person’s voice when they had never met them?

He lay in his bed for a couple hours, staring at the ceiling as he struggled with his own thoughts. He eventually got up and moved through the motions of his morning. Coffee, something small for breakfast though he wound up taking a bite of the toast and then it lay forgotten on the counter as he moved over to his computer.

He opened his drawer and saw his handgun there, blinking once. He didn’t pick it up this time, as he usually did. He checked it meticulously every day, as if in contemplation, which in a sense he was in. But today something told him not to touch it. He closed the drawer and opened his laptop, staring at the empty blog. Well, mostly empty blog. Since his last session he’d done a couple short posts. Mostly about going to a shop or taking a walk.

His foot bounced as he worked, not able to type anything for the blog that he was able to leave there. He kept deleting the words. Everyone who read it, mainly his therapist, would think he was mad. No, that wouldn’t do. He finally just closed his computer and pushed away from the desk. He needed air.

__________________________________

He was walking through nearby park when he heard his name, almost not recognizing the voice. He turned and saw a familiar, yet slightly more rounded face come near him grinning ear to ear.

__________________________________

John sipped off his coffee as he sat back in the seat he’d taken at the café, across from his old classmate Mike. “So…how’ve you…how’ve you been?” he asked, foot bouncing again.

“Good. Teaching now more than doing practice. Though I have some fun with my interns,” he said with a grin. “What about yourself? You mentioned getting shot,” he said.

John’s hand tightened into a fist on his knee under the table and he sipped off of his coffee. “Yeah…good. Good,” he said. “Just…getting situated. Back to…civilian life,” he said.

“Where you living at now?”

“Oh, small bedsit. I’m looking for another place, but hard to afford London on an Army pension,” he said with a sigh.

“You could always get a flatshare,” Mike suggested. John laughed a little, shaking his head a little.

“Who on Earth would want me as a flatmate?” he said, looking at Mike and seeing the other smile a little. “What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me lately,” he said. “I’ve got a mate at Barts,” he said. “Well, sort of a mate. He uses the lab down by the mortuary. He’s brilliant though. Couple days ago I got into a conversation with our mortician Molly about flatshares and we roped him into the conversation, anyway…I think he’s there now actually if you want to meet him?” he asked.

John let out a breath. This was a good thing; he should do this. It would get his mind off all of everything the night before. That was hard to do, he found.

“Yeah, yeah let’s do it,” he said with a nod.

__________________________________

Half an hour later he was walking through Bart’s. A familiar enough setting, though it had changed some since his brief time there. They took the lift down to the lower level and started towards the mortuary. “Now, he’s a bit…odd. But he’s a good bloke. Works with the police I think and he’s mentioned potentially getting a flatshare.”

“Potentially?” John inquired as they paused outside the door, unaware that the man inside the next room could clearly hear them.

“Well, he may have more mentioned that he didn’t have a flatmate. Apparently he had one ages ago,” the man in the lab smirked. It had been more than a century, but the other didn’t know that.  “but he hasn’t bothered finding another. But you never know, yeah?” Mike clearly was stretching with this but John would allow it, he wanted to stay in the area. Try and move on from everything…including recent events.

John nodded and they pushed into the room. His eyes were drawn almost instantly to the figure standing near a microscope and he froze. Impossible…what on earth were the odds of that?

“John, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is John Watson. We’re old mates from school,” Mike introduced. Sherlock lifted his gaze, already knowing it was John but not giving Mike an indication that they knew each other.

John was at a loss. “How…” he looked at Mike. “Did he set this up?” he asked, pointing his thumb at Sherlock. Mike looked thoroughly confused.

“What? No. Why, do you two know each other?” he asked.

“We’re acquainted,” Sherlock supplied after a slight pause on John’s part. There was another bought of silence then. Mike clearly sensed a bit of tension in the air. Sherlock turned his gaze to Mike, perhaps using a bit of glamour as persuasion.

“Thank you Stamford,” he said cordially. “Perhaps given our previous introduction you might give us some time to chat? I think I might be more comfortable that way.” Which really was for John’s sake. Mike, for all his virtues, was ridiculously easy to glamour so if Sherlock ever said anything in front of the other he didn’t want remembered it was easy enough to pluck it out of the others mind as if selecting ripe fruit from a tree.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Mike said, giving a smile to John and leaving the lab rather quickly, as if he were compelled to do so. Which John of course didn’t know that he had been. John turned to look at the other then.

“How the hell are you here?” John demanded. Sherlock smirked in response.

“Molly allows me the use of the space,” Sherlock said. “If you think that I have planned this Johnathan, you would be quite wrong.”

“It’s John,” the other said tersely, though hearing the name…made him feel odd. “So what it’s…coincidence?” he asked.

“It would appear so.” John looked at him steadily and let out a breath. “John, I understand you have questions, as is your right. But did you want to perhaps discuss that or the reason Mike brought you here?” he asked.

“You already knew about it. You said that about me earlier…that I wasn’t going to be in London long. And then there’s…how are you…you didn’t have a pulse before. Is that some sort of joke?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock said, setting down the slide he’d been working on. “Part of my condition I’m afraid, used to bother me to no end. You think you don’t notice your heart beating, but you certainly realize it’s absence,” Sherlock said conversationally.

John pursed his lips. “But that’s impossible,” he said plainly.

“Clearly it isn’t,” Sherlock said, looking at the other with a somewhat stern expression. “Look, John. If I had meant you any harm, I would not have saved your life the other night when you were stabbed.”

“I haven’t got a-”

“A wound, yes. Because I fixed that. You can continue lying to yourself but it will never sit properly with you because you know better. You know that I’m telling you the truth. Because I’d wager it’s the only thing that’s felt proper to you since you died.” John blinked a few times, looking at the other. How could have possibly known that?

“Died?” he asked. Sherlock exhaled calmly, one deduction too many. Of course he was talking about John dying in his previous life. The only explanation…he was the same. He looked the same, had the same stubbornness. The eyes…even his scent. Though he of course knew that John had died in this life, after his injury. Humans who have died, and even begun to cross over come back with a different smell. Like a scar, one that only someone like Sherlock could perceive.

“Yes. When you were abroad, in the war. You were shot, left shoulder. And you died. I know, because I can smell it on you, and I…tasted it,” he said cautiously. Of course, the other didn’t react like most people would to that. And Sherlock knew…it was because a part of this John, was still connected to _his_ John.

“Christ, what are you then some sort of…of…”

“Vampire? Yes,” Sherlock said, watching the other to gauge his reaction. “You’re not startled though, you feel it settling already, the truth of it,” he said.

John hated how it seemed the other was in his head so much. How did he know how he felt? “I don’t know it just…seems, not entirely unreasonable. But…why? Why am I so bloody okay with this but I can’t even handle day to day life since…since everything? I got into a fight with a chip and pin machine for Christ’s sake!” he said, feeling a flare of frustration.

“Dying does…interesting things to one’s perception of the world,” Sherlock said reasonably as he went back to his slide. “So, what do you say?”

John blinked once, looking at the other. “What do you mean?”

“About the room upstairs in my flat. I’d give you a good price for it. I’ve had a decent amount of time to amass some funds and I’m getting a good price for the flat to begin with so it’s within your price range.” Sherlock owned the building, technically. Not that his landlady knew that. She figured she was just subleasing it. Which she had been, but Sherlock had lived in that flat for quite a long while. Granted it had changed some, what with damage to it during the war, but something about the spot had seemed comfortable to him. After all, it was where he…they, had lived. Even when he travelled once more and the building was leased out to others, he was watchful of the property, lest someone bring it to harm.

“I…I don’t know. You say you’re some sort of…of…”

“Vampire,” Sherlock offered when the other trailed off.

“Yes that,” John said quickly, letting out a breath. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Well, you can assume I’m a nutter, which I am not and just figure that since I helped you that I can’t be _that_ dangerous and it would give you a place to live in the meantime. Or you can just believe that that is true and move in anyway because you’ve already made up your mind and the longer you sit there and waffle on it the more miserable you’ll be,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Now, I play the violin,” he started.

“I don’t mind-”

 “But that won’t bother you,” Sherlock paused, they’d spoken at the same time and he couldn’t help that the corner of his mouth quirked up.

 


End file.
